"It's not your fault," she said. "I know that. I believe you."
"Thank you," he said simply, taking the apology with grace.
"And your people were not the only ones to get carried away. They started it," she said, emphasizing the point. "But my editor, well, my ex-editor, he fell for it, too."
"I'm sorry," Lance said, sounding sincere.
"That's okay," Julia said, calling on her emotional reserves. "I have an early flight. I'm going back to the people I love. I'm leaving, and this will all be over."
"Great."
"Six thirty this morning, and I'm out of here," she stated flatly.
"Six thirty? Your flight's at six thirty, or you're leaving for the airport at six thirty?" Lance glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. "Because it's four fifteen in the morning right now."
Julia turned to study the clock herself. "It can't be!"
"It is." He raised his eyebrows in mock reverence. "Welcome to the criminal justice system."
"I'm not going to make it," Julia exclaimed, wilting with the realization. "It's her fifth birthday, and I'm not going to make it."
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Lance turned to her. "What if I was to make sure you made that flight? What would that be worth?"
Julia leaned her head against the notice-covered bulletin board. She heard paper crinkle and felt a thumbtack jab into her skull, but she was far too exhausted to care. "If I made it to the airport with all of my belongings in time to catch a six thirty A.M. flight?" "Yeah," he said.
"If you could do that, you could name your price. But since—"
"I need to make a call," Lance said to a passing guard. A moment later, he was gone, leaving Julia on that hard bench alone.
Forty minutes later, Lance appeared at Julia's elbow. "Come on," he said, holding her coat. "Let's sign the forms and go."
"What? We're ready?"
"Well, I don't know about you, but I am."
The frigid March air hit Julia like a fist as they exited the station, and she recoiled, leaning into Lance. To her surprise, in spite of the hour, a cab was idling on the street at the bottom of the steep stairs. As they reached the sidewalk, the back door of the cab opened and a young man got out. Lance nodded at him and asked, "Everything set?"
"It's all in there," the young man responded. "I signed her out of her room, too."
"Okay." Lance moved to shake hands with his friend. "I owe you."
"Damn right you do."
"Will someone please tell me what's going on here?" Julia asked.
"Oh, sorry." The young man stepped forward and held his hand out for Julia to shake, which she did. "How ya doing?"
"Julia James"—Lance put his arm around her—"I'd like you to meet Tom Ford, a friend of mine." Lance ran his free hand through his hair, a gesture that almost succeeded in muffling his voice when he added, "Tom's also a bellman at the Ritz."
"Oh," Julia said, allowing a lot of pieces to fall into the puzzle.
"Tom and I are members of New York's thespian underground," Lance explained. "There's not a hotel we can't get into, a restaurant we can't eat at, or a Gap where we can't get .in employee discount. We're very powerful. Don't mess with us," he joked.
Tom raised his eyebrow in a "yep, I'm guilty" gesture. Julia looked at her carry-on bags lying in the backseat of the cab and forgot about invasion of privacy and hotel security, serenely grateful that Tom had chosen to abuse his power for a good cause.
"Come on." Lance pushed her toward the running taxi. "We've got a plane to catch." With a wave back at Tom, he said, "Thanks, man. Good luck in LA."
Julia was almost in the cab when she registered the "we."